Chapter 77: Into the Wildlands

  The wind carried the scent of fresh earth and untamed wilderness as Marcus, Vira, and Thalron ventured into the Wildlands of Eryndral, a sprawling, untamed region where the nomadic tribes of Fauns, Satyrs, Centaurs, and Minotaurs roamed.

  Unlike the fortified cities and structured kingdoms they had encountered before, this land was free and vast, comprised of rolling hills, dense forests, and winding rivers that stretched as far as the eye could see. Villages were built along natural paths, woven into the landscape rather than imposed upon it. The people here lived as part of the land, not apart from it.

  They had come for one reason—to find Arixa.

  Marcus had known that when she left, it wasn’t just to disappear. She was looking for something. A piece of herself that had been missing for a long time. And if they were going to bring her back, they had to understand what she was looking for in the first place.

  Their first stop was a Satyr settlement nestled in the highlands, its structures carved into the hillsides and reinforced with woven roots and vines.

  As they approached, a pair of horned, goat-legged figures armed with carved wooden spears stepped into their path. Satyrs—tricksters, traders, and warriors in their own right.

  One of them, a broad-shouldered male with spiraling antlers and golden eyes, eyed them warily. “You lot don’t look like traders. What brings you to the Wildlands?”

  Marcus stepped forward, his posture relaxed but firm. “We’re looking for someone. A woman named Arixa.”

  The Satyr raised an eyebrow. “Arixa?” He crossed his arms. “Minotaur name. But you’re all outsiders.”

  Vira sighed. “She’s not exactly full Minotaur.”

  The Satyr’s eyes narrowed in curiosity, but Thalron cut in, offering a small pouch of silver coins—the universal language of cooperation. “We’re not here to cause trouble. Just tell us if you’ve seen her.”

  The Satyr inspected the pouch, then gestured toward the village. “Talk to the elder. If anyone’s seen her, it’ll be him.”

  Inside the village’s central gathering lodge, a wizened Satyr elder sat cross-legged atop a woven mat, surrounded by the swirling smoke of a burning herb. His fur was streaked with gray, and his curved horns were adorned with small metal rings—symbols of status among his people.

  He peered at Marcus with sharp, knowing eyes. “Arixa… yes. She passed through here not long ago.”

  Marcus leaned forward. “Where did she go?”

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  The elder chuckled, his deep voice like the rumbling of the earth. “You seek her, but do you know why she left?”

  Marcus hesitated.

  Vira frowned. “She didn’t say much. Just that it was personal.”

  The elder nodded. “She was searching for something—her bloodline.” He tapped a gnarled staff against the floor. “Minotaurs and Centaurs are proud people, but they are also bound by their traditions. Arixa… is an anomaly.” His golden eyes flicked between them. “She does not look like either of her people. She has no hooves, no horns. Yet she is both and neither.”

  Marcus clenched his fists. He had never once thought of her as anything less than Arixa—as strong, bold, and fierce as anyone he had ever fought beside. But the way the elder spoke made him realize… not everyone saw her that way.

  “She wanted answers,” the elder continued. “And so, she went to the Minotaur Clans of the Broken Plains.”

  Marcus stood. “Then that’s where we’re going.”

  The elder smiled. “Good. But be warned, outsider—Minotaurs respect strength above all else. If you wish to take back one of their own, you must prove you are worthy.”

  Marcus smirked. “That’s the easy part.”

  The Broken Plains stretched endlessly before them—a land of jagged cliffs, deep ravines, and rolling grasslands where the Minotaur clans roamed in massive warbands, their entire culture built upon strength, combat, and honor.

  Here, the weak were cast aside, and only the strong thrived.

  As they traveled, word spread—outsiders had come looking for the half-blood. Some Minotaurs laughed at the notion. Others saw it as an insult—that someone not of their kind would dare seek one of theirs.

  By the time Marcus, Vira, and Thalron reached the first major encampment, they were expected.

  A wall of Minotaur warriors stood at the entrance to their village—massive, horned figures clad in heavy leathers and bone-plated armor. Their leader, a towering, gray-furred warrior with one broken horn, stepped forward, arms crossed.

  “You come seeking the half-blood, outsider?” His deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Then you have two choices—turn back, or prove you have the strength to take her.”

  Marcus cracked his knuckles.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Minotaur combat wasn’t just about strength. It was about dominance. About proving, without a shadow of doubt, who stood at the top.

  Marcus stepped into the circular arena at the center of the village, the ground packed hard from centuries of battles fought and won. The gathered Minotaurs watched in silence, their eyes gleaming with interest. To them, this was entertainment.

  His opponent was a brute of a Minotaur, easily eight feet tall, his muscles coiled like steel cables beneath his dark fur.

  The rules were simple: Knock the other down. Stand victorious.

  The Minotaur charged first—a blur of raw power.

  Marcus sidestepped, planting his foot and driving a Ki-infused uppercut straight into the warrior’s ribs. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, making the crowd stir.

  But the Minotaur barely flinched.

  He retaliated with a devastating overhead strike. Marcus ducked, weaved, and countered, his movements faster, sharper. He didn’t just rely on power—he used technique, precision, and adaptability.

  And slowly, he wore his opponent down.

  With a final Psycha-infused right hook, Marcus sent the Minotaur crashing to the ground.

  Silence.

  Then—a rumble of approving nods and deep grunts from the crowd.

  He had proven himself.

  And then—Arixa’s voice cut through the silence.

  “Well, well.”

  She stood atop the ridge overlooking the arena, arms crossed, her usual cocky smirk playing on her lips. She looked the same, yet different. Stronger. More certain of herself.

  “Took you long enough to come find me.”

  Marcus exhaled, a grin creeping onto his face. “Would’ve been faster if you didn’t run off without saying anything.”

  Arixa’s smirk widened. Boisterous, brash, but beneath it all—relieved.

  Vira rolled her eyes. “Oh great, now we’ve got two of them.”

  Thalron chuckled. “This should be fun.”

  Arixa cracked her knuckles. “If you think I’m just walking away from here, you’re dumber than you look.” Her eyes gleamed. “You want me back? You’re gonna have to fight me for it.”

  Marcus smirked, stepping forward.

  “That’s what I was hoping for.”